Wickham's Daughter
by JA35
Summary: A continuation of P&P the sons and daughters of P&P cast as adults. Frances Wickham has to make her way in the world despite her unfortunate upbringing and relations. The main action of the story takes place between 1832 and 1845 in England and Paris.
1. Chapter 1

BLURB:_A continuation of P&P, in a way, with the sons and daughters of P&P cast as adults. Frances Wickham has to make her way in the world despite her unfortunate upbringing and relations. Despite its darker beginnings, who can expect otherwise with a father like that?, the story will have a happy ending for Frances. The main action of the story takes place between 1832 and 1845 in England, Paris and some of it in South Africa. _

_Prologue_

_Newcastle, 9 July 1834_

'Th-there is no-nothing left, it is all yours!' The two men had been playing all night and now it was over. Even in this part of town, the last of the street sounds had died down hours ago and most people had retired. The man that had spoken was shabbily clad, his thin hair tousled, and it was hard to determine where the grey ended and the greasy part started, as he badly needed a haircut. He put his head on his soiled shirtsleeves and wept, his muffled sobs punctuating the silence.

The cold eyes of his younger, fashionably clothed, and immaculately clean opponent watched him from the other end of the table. His face seemed to be hewn out of rock and the only sign there was life in him was the tapping of his right hand index finger on the table. He waited.

At last the other man came to his senses. He lifted his head and looked at his opponent, silently daring him. Eyes locked, and a battle of wills ensued. From his opponent's gaze he could read nothing but the disdain he was certain the other held him in. He was the first to avert his eyes in embarrassment, and he attempted to get up, knocking over his glass while trying to right himself. He bowed before his guest and made a grotesquely grand gesture with his trembling hand. 'Sso, milord, I will sssee you out'. The dramatic effect was undone when he nearly lost his balance and had to grab the doorpost. 'Or is it you that must sssee me out?' He laughed uncontrollably.

A powerful hand shot out and steadied him. 'No so hasty, friend,' a soft voice spoke. The undertone of menace belied the manner of address.

A chill ran up the man's back. His befuddled brain told him he had really done it this time. He was on the point of no return. Opening the door, he peered into what resembled an empty hallway. He shut the door and wobbled to his desk at the far end of the room. Fumbling with the handle, he opened the centre drawer in front of him. He hesitated, squinting at his opponent. 'It is my daughter's'-

'All you have lost against your daughter then?' Gone was the other's indifference, and even the cold distance he maintained earlier. The statue had turned into flesh and the baser instinct of the gambler could not be checked.

The man at the desk hesitated. Greed shone in his eyes and yet he could not bring himself to accept the challenge. Abruptly he snatched an envelope from the drawer. He knew when he was beaten. Pulling a folded note out, he threw the envelope on the table; it landed with a dull chunk in front of his opponent.

'Enough is enough.' He wobbled back to the door and opened it with an exaggerated bow. 'We shall be out tomorrow before noon, milord.'

_Chapter 1_

_Sunderland, 21 December 1835_

Frances Wickham had little reason to trust the world of adults. In all her fifteen years she had never spent more than a twelve month at the same address. Every time she was beginning to feel comfortable in a house and neighbourhood her parents' pecuniary difficulties would force the family to move on to a better situation, which generally meant less burdensome on the purse.

Not only the housing but also the company changed regularly. For as long Frances could remember she used to spend the night upstairs when certain company was visiting. After a while these guests would be replaced by others, usually after drunken rows or moving house. She was relieved to retire with her younger sisters Jane and Catherine, read to them, tuck them in bed and enjoy a few hours of solitude herself.

When the cholera came to England in 1832 Lydia Bennet Wickham was one of its first victims. It was Frances that nursed her; watched over her and held her hand when she died. No sooner had she buried her mother than her little sisters fell ill. Again it was Frances who comforted the sick and sat with them when the end came.

Frances was devastated after she lost her sisters. Urged by Doctor Simmons she wrote her father who was quarantined with her brother George in the garrison of Newcastle. The doctor found her a place to stay with Widow Stephens. The woman, who ran a respectable boarding house in town, took pity on the twelve year old. Frances ran small errands for her in exchange for bed and board until she heard from her father. Frances was happy there, Mrs. Stephens was a good kind woman and she lived not too far away from the wharfs where John, her fifteen-year old brother, was apprenticed as a shipbuilder. Every Sunday after the morning service he would visit her and they would take long walks together.

She had not been in Widow Stephens' care above three months when George Wickham sr. came to collect his last surviving daughter. Although she knew her father well and her brother only too well, she was happy to come away with them when they came for her.

News went slow in these days and it took some months before the members of the Bennet family were apprised of the fact that their youngest daughter and sister and two of her daughters had fallen victim to the Cholera Morbus. When Mrs. Darcy came to see her sister's grave she was led to the pauper's corner of a special graveyard for the cholera victims. She was appalled at learning that her niece of twelve had had to deal with everything. Widow Stephens was visited to thank her for her concern and to remunerate her for her troubles.

The Darcys had come to Newcastle with the intention to collect their niece and bring her up at Pemberley. It had not occurred to them that they would have to travel back without her. However good their intentions were, Frances was not to be persuaded to leave Newcastle for Pemberley. She knew her father was not respectable, had not she witnessed how her mother was treated by him? But Frances had moved house time and again; she had lost her friends and acquaintances so often and most importantly she had lost her mother and sisters that she clung to her father and brother. She was quite frank in her refusal. She preferred to stay in Newcastle. The Darcys had to travel back alone.

Two years later disaster struck again. George Wickham was despatched to India; he was sent there on special duty. Frances never got to the bottom of it, he simply left without letting on why he was despatched. She suspected some mischief; was he not often in trouble?

Young George's fate was even worse. He was heavily in debt and there was no one who wanted to gamble with him. He was in and out of trouble all the time and this George did not have a Darcy to bail him out every time things went wrong. When he attempted armed robbery to cover his debts, he was arrested, dismissed dishonourably from the army and sent to the colonies. Frances stood alone once more.

She packed her meagre belongings and travelled back to Sunderland. Once again it was Widow Stephens that saved Frances from despair. She promised Frances board and lodging provided her brother John moved in with her. And so it happened, John rented the top floor of the establishment and at the tender age of fifteen Frances kept house for her brother and lent Widow Stephens a hand in busy times.

Experiences are defining. There were two things Frances coveted most; a stable situation and a quiet life. She had found both in Sunderland with her brother John. For the first time in her life she had a feeling of peace when she looked around her in the small sitting room. She was in charge of her own life and life was good at the moment.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Sunderland, 19 December 1835_

Frances shivered when she stepped out into the cold corridor. It was 5 am and the house was still silent. She wrapped her warmest shawl around her and tiptoed to the drawing room to empty the grate and build a new fire. When the flames seemed to devour the wood she pulled up a chair and warmed her feet. It was a quiet way to start the day; seeing and feeling a cold room slowly lit and warmed up by a roaring fire. It never failed to warm her and to remind her of their good fortune they had been able to rent these rooms. Two bedrooms and a parlour were sufficient for her and her brother. John had been enthusiastic about the plan almost from the start. As a shipbuilder he made enough to provide for both of them. The only shadow in Frances' life at present was the long hours John had to put in at the yard.

John breakfasted in silence. Frances sat opposite of him, sipping her tea. This was every day routine, he would eat, she would drink and both would sit there in quiet contentment. 'I have been wondering of late, Fran,' he suddenly spoke, 'are you not lonely here?' He had been wondering about this after the Reverend Gray of the Old Parish Church had voiced his concerns.

_'I am glad that Frances has settled in so well after, well…' his voice had trailed off. 'But I am concerned for her. It is not natural for a fifteen-year old to be secluded all day, all week, the whole time. She never mingles with other young people. No work, no school, and the only person she ever talks to is to you!' _The Reverend had seemed it a bit embarrassed after this outburst.

_'She does talk to Widow Stephens and she does visit some old acquaintances of mother's.'_

'Well I do not mean to pry into your affairs John, but that is exactly my point. Old acquaintances, she needs young and new acquaintances.'

John had thanked the Reverend and went on his way. He had thought about it when he was working at the yard. The Reverend was right, Frances was lonely. But how could he alter that? She was a quiet one, not prone to talking and his guess was that she had seen a great deal when living with Father and George. It pained him to see his sister live this life of solitude. Not that she seemed to mind to be here all alone when he was at work. At least that was what she would say when he hinted at it. Whenever he suggested a party or a visit to friends an invisible wall was coming up between them and he could literally see her withdraw into herself.

Frances wasn't aware of what her brother was thinking. She traced the pattern on the table cloth with her knife. It was one of the only things left from Mother's wedding presents. White damask with a woven flower pattern and it had come with matching bone china. The bone china had long gone and the cloth was her mother's last present to Frances. It had been a gift from Aunt Elizabeth and as such it was worth treasuring. Two roses with intermingled stems and lots of leaves repeated themselves at regular intervals.

'Frances?'

She looked up and met his inquiring glance. She smiled. 'This table cloth was a present of Aunt Elizabeth to Mother when she married. There was also matching bone china, don't you remember?'

'No, I do not remember. In fact, I never saw it before.' He pressed a napkin to his mouth. 'I was wondering if we could…, that is, the Hursts have invited you for a couple of days. I really feel you should go. Aunt Jane will be there and I thought you might like to mingle with other young people.'

To tell the truth, John felt he sounded like the old pastor himself but if he wouldn't urge Frances to go out more, who else would do it?

'Oh, I am sorry,' she coloured under his close scrutiny. 'Truly, John, I do not feel lonely; I love to be alone. I don't feel like visiting.' A small frown appeared above Frances' nose. It was not the first time the subject was brought up and frankly spoken she didn't like it one bit.

'Why do you hate company so much, Frances? It would be a relief to know you had friends in the world you could turn to when the need would arise. You cannot go through life all alone.' John waited and looked at his sister sitting across from him, toying with her knife with downcast eyes.

Suddenly she looked up. 'I am not alone in the world, John. I have you and Andrew and James.'

'James is in the Mediterranean and Andrew never stays long enough to be of real help. I mean, James may be the best of brothers but how long does it take for a letter to reach him? When he is in combat he cannot just leave and come back.'

'Why should he come back, John? Do not worry about me, I am fine here. It is not the company I hate; I just value the solitude and the silence.' Seeing his sceptic look she exclaimed with sudden vehemence, 'You have no idea what it was like these past three years with Father. Always company, never alone. Even the nights were noisy and on many occasions I had to bolt the door as a precaution.'

Noticing a profoundly disturbed expression in his eyes, she hastened to say, 'No, no it is not what you think. If someone would come in it was usually because they had mistaken the door for theirs. They were generally too drunk to notice me, so I just woke up and waited till they were gone. I started to bolt the lock after one of them tripped and fell asleep on my bedroom floor. But nothing really serious ever happened.'

For some time neither of them said anything. John had no words to express his feelings of dismay and anger. Dismayed at the danger Frances unwittingly had been in. _How innocent she was, she did not realize that the fact only of someone entering her bedroom at night was enough to compromise her._ He clenched his fist in a sudden fit of anger. _What had father been thinking when he took Frances home? _The thought of his fourteen-year old sister bolting the door in fear at night made him sick.

Frances saw him clenching and unclenching his fist and the angry look that had come into his eyes. Was he angry with her? She knew better than to ask; a lifelong habit of avoiding conflicts kicked into gear when she left the room to fetch her brother's coat and cap. When she came back he had left the table and stood at the window.

'Does anyone know of this, Fran?'

'Only these men themselves, I guess, but I doubt if they would remember anything. They were very drunk, John, extremely drunk. Even father could usually not recall what he had done the night before.' When he said nothing she ventured, unsure of herself 'Are you angry with me, John?'

He threw her a reassuring glance. 'No, I am not angry, how could I be? This situation was not of your making but it pains me to hear you had to endure this. We shall talk about it tonight and also about the Hurst party. I must hurry now. Breakfast was delicious. Till tonight.'

With these words John squeezed Frances' shoulder and taking his coat from her made for the door. Just before he disappeared into the corridor his final words were, 'You are wrong about the table cloth and the china; it was a birthday present for mother from Mrs. Darcy after they got married. Not one of mother's sisters was present at the wedding.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Sunderland, 23 December 1835  
_  
'You are to travel with Miss Tracey in the Hurst carriage, Frances.' John paused a moment in the doorway of Frances' bedroom. Her face was pale and drawn and there was something pathetic in the way she avoided his eyes. 'Christmas Eve I will be there and you will be picked up the night of the 26th.'

There was still no reaction. Pieces of clothing and other – to John – unidentifiable objects flew rapidly in the open bag on the bed. 'Frances, it is just a party!' He took her hands and felt them shake slightly. 'Look at me, Frances, surely you are not afraid? You will see Aunt Jane again. She is the kindest person one ever met. Mother used to write her a lot and when I was little we often visited with the Bingleys.'

Frances lifted her head languidly and looked at her brother. The look in her eyes reminded him of a wounded deer. That was the appropriate word for it. Somehow life had wounded her and no one yet knew how deeply. She opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to think the better of it and just rested her eyes in his. To his alarm he saw tears well up in her sky-blue eyes.

'Is it so bad, little sister?' Without waiting for a reply he gathered her in his arms and stroked her back. Gradually he felt the tension leave her shoulders. When she pulled back she had recomposed herself and resumed packing with resignation.

She was to travel in the Hurst carriage that was to pick her up from Widow Stephens' establishment at 7 pm. The Hursts were known to be friendly people. Mr. Hurst did not speak much but he had a kind heart. His wife spoke for the two of them but she was amiable enough especially when she forgot to talk. She was distantly related to the Wickhams by marriage. A fact that never sat well with her. Her brother Charles had married Frances' aunt Jane. They had been living in Northumberland for 10 years now ever since Mr. Hurst inherited Almhurst, a small estate not far from Sunderland. Jane had asked Louise Hurst to keep an eye on her youngest sister Lydia. To be true, Mrs. Hurst had been most unwilling at first, but Jane's generosity and kindness had won her over in the end. When the Hursts were settled in at their estate Louisa Hurst visited Lydia. Frances had been five years old at the time. These visits were repeated at regular intervals. After the cholera had taken the lives of Mrs. Wickham and the two youngest girls it was Mrs. Hurst that had written to her sister Jane who had passed on the news to the Darcys. 

Frances liked Mrs. Hurst. She knew where she stood with her and she admired her for visiting them where she so clearly disliked the whole set up. Well-concealed distrust and disgust kept Mrs. Hurst from offering Frances a home when the latter stood alone. It was not so much the girl that evoked these feelings but it was the Wickham name. By 1832 the Wickhams were notorious in Newcastle and environs. It was Mrs. Hurst's fear that the presence of Frances would attract trouble and put a slur on her name. So she kept an eye on her and assisted her in small matters like these. Providing an escort to a young lady and being kind to her and hosting her coming-out party.

Miss Tracey was a poor relation of Mr. Hurst who had been living at Almhurst House when it changed hands. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst offered her a home and having nowhere else to go she gladly accepted the offer. She was approaching forty and had long since lost her bloom. Frances got along very well with her and whenever Miss Tracey happened to be in Sunderland she would visit her and often the two of them were to be seen walking along the beach, enjoying the wind and the fresh air.

So when the Hurst carriage pulled up in the narrow street where Frances stood waiting with her brother in front of the house, it was Miss Tracey that leaned out from the carriage with a welcoming smile.

John helped his sister in the carriage and had great delight in springing his surprise on her in his parting words. 'Andrew will come for you the evening of the 26th to take you home.'

Frances' eyes lit up in quiet enjoyment. 'So why did you not tell me before?' She would have liked to prepare the house and pore over all his letters in anticipation of his long awaited visit.

John shook his head and laughed. 'No way, Frances. You would have been worn out with fatigue and worry. I can see it surprises you. Good, it is just as I intended.' A smile, the first one in many days, came to a start in Frances' eyes and slowly spread over her features.  
Andrew was coming! Of course she was surprised.

Miss Tracey watched in fascination how Frances' face was changed by that smile. From a plain, awkward girl she was transformed into a beautiful young lady with spirit. If a simple smile could do this much for her she had great hopes for the ball.

In the meantime the two siblings had taken their leave. 'Till the 26th then,' the sister said, offering him her hand.

'Till then. Enjoy yourself,' replied her brother taking her hand and bowing over it. For a moment Frances thought there was a brief glimpse of regret in his dark eyes but it was so fleeting that she asked herself if she hadn't imagined it. It was not the first time she had seen it and Frances wondered if John was content with the life he had to lead. But not prone to sharing her innermost thoughts she kept silent and withdrawing in the carriage she waved a last goodbye.

'So, you are out of the house, at last.' Miss Tracey smiled. 'I am so happy you are coming to stay with us.' She laughed when she saw Frances' expression. 'It is just a party Frances, no more than that.' She looked at the girl across from her with satisfaction. Happy to have her young friend with her if even for a few days only, she leaned over to her and squeezed the girl's hand fondly.

'Do you know who will be invited, Miss Tracey?'

'Well, there is your Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles. They brought Linley and Elizabeth.'

'Linley?' inquired Frances. 'I thought Elizabeth was their only daughter.'

'Linley is Mrs. Caroline Bragge's daughter. She lost her father recently and she was sent to live with her Aunt and Uncle Bingley. I do not know the details, but I can imagine a few things. According to Louisa the girl is a load of trouble of which we haven't seen the worst.'

Frances said nothing. She watched the passing fields with some complacence and from her features nothing could be read. She was determined to stay clear of Linley. She had had enough troubles of her own and would steer clear of others'. Besides, having met the mother once, would the daughter be different?

'There will be some officers attending and also the Franklins, the Whites and of course the vicar. A small party really, your coming-out party.'

At hearing these words, Frances started. 'I knew there was something behind all this. A coming-out party, of all things. Why now?'

'I would think that obvious,' was Miss Tracey's calm reply. 'You are the lady of the house, Frances, and as such will be expected to call on people or to entertain people. You will not always live in these rooms and even if you are not inclined at this time of your life to have company or attend parties, your brother might want to invite people, friends, and acquaintances.'

The brief glimpse of regret in her brother's eyes she had witnessed just now came back to Frances. Suddenly she realized their awkward situation. Even though John had had a good schooling and had a responsible position at the yard he would always remain just what he was. He was so unlike father and George who would have milked their connection to the Darcys of Pemberley to better their position. He was so modest; he was hardly a credit to the Wickham name. At least, that was how father saw it.

Although she shrank from the idea of entertaining people at home and attend parties there was some truth in what Miss Tracey had said. For the first time she understood the necessity of the undertaking and she resolved to overcome her fears if only for her brother's sake.

The rest of the carriage ride was performed in silence. Miss Tracey had run out of words and topics and Frances was too full of her thoughts to pay heed to the rules of polite conversation. Her mind was occupied with one subject really. Her heart had literally skipped a beat when the word 'officers' was mentioned. _Would any of these officers happen to be old friends of father's? Would she have met these officers? _She dreaded the thought and for a moment panic threatened to disturb her fragile composure. She closed her eyes in concentration. _What could be her course of action if this appeared to be the case?_

When the carriage pulled up the drive way of Almhurst Mansion it was clear that they weren't the first to arrive. Torches were burning, servants were running to and fro to help the passengers alight from their carriages and point the guests in the right direction. Frances felt a cold feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach when the carriage pulled slowly to a stop.

The carriage door was opened and a white gloved hand was extended to assist the ladies out of the carriage. Miss Tracey had precedence because of seniority. When it was Frances' turn she took the hand that was held out invitingly to her. It gripped hers with surprising strength. Not being practised in getting out of carriages she tripped over her skirt when she stepped down on the footboard. Immediately another hand shot out and closed around her upper arm to steady her. Regaining her balance she stepped from the carriage. A fiery red crept up from her neck and spread slowly to her face.

'Allow me,' a deep husky voice softly spoke. Something clicked in her memory but she could not put a finger on it. She had the distinct feeling she recognized the voice. Looking up shyly she was surprised to see an officer where she had expected a servant. She was positively certain she had never met the handsome, tall lieutenant who stood looking at her gravely with an inscrutable look in his eyes. When he let go of her arm she curtsied in thanks and hastened away with her companion.

'You could at least have thanked him Frances for helping you out of the carriage!' 

'You know how I feel about officers, I do not like them and I curtseyed. If he feels offended, then so be it. I do not think he was.'

Shaking her head Miss Tracey preceded Frances into the foyer of Almhurst Mansion. She would have thought the girl was used to officers with a father and three brothers both in the army and the navy.

They were watched by a pair of dark, intense eyes. _So, that was Miss Wickham! Not at all what he was led to expect._ Lieutenant Fitzwilliam beckoned the servant whose duty he had taken over temporarily. When the man had taken his place he walked away, feeling strangely satisfied it had been so easy to meet a member of the notorious, yet nowadays quite elusive, Wickham clan at last.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to everyone who has commented on the first three chapters. I love feedback! A special thanks to my beta Stargazer whose help is invaluable._

_**Chapter 4**_

Mrs. Jane Bingley watched silently as her niece sat patiently in front of the mirror while Sarah, Jane's personal maid pinned up Frances' long tresses and added flowers as a finishing touch to the elegant white gown she was wearing. She was not sure what to make of Frances yet. She was quiet and friendly and not at all like Lydia. The shyness that seemed to surround the girl was so unlike what one would expect from a daughter of George and Lydia Wickham that Jane was actually relieved. Of course she would never admit those feelings, not even to her husband, but she felt it nonetheless. When she had proposed to sponsor the girl on her first introduction to society, she had wondered if it could be done. Now, having met Frances she was reassured on that count. However, she did wish the girl were livelier, more like a girl of fifteen; more like Lydia was at that age while behaving with propriety.

From the moment Frances had walked in the front door and met her aunt Bingley up until now, Jane had not detected a single emotion in her eyes, her voice, or her words. She had returned her aunt's greetings politely; and accompanied her upstairs. Frances accepted the new dress stoically; her thanks for the maid's assistance in pinning up her hair and getting dressed sounded almost disinterested. It was as if she did not care to be there at all. And that was something Jane could not understand from Lydia's daughter. This was not at all what she had anticipated from her first encounter with Frances. It was not at all what she would have wished.

'That dress and hairstyle become you, Frances!' Jane smiled. 'You look just like your mother, except for the grave look, of course.'

Frances watched her aunt in the mirror. She was so nice and genuine that it was impossible not to like her. Mother had always spoken well of her. But she could not give herself unguardedly to liking her although Mother and Aunt Jane had had a lively correspondence at one time and even Father seemed to like her well enough.

Father. An image came in her mind, forbidden, and unwanted, of the tall man with the ruffled hair who had been so ill at ease at their last farewell. Father. She could only guess the reason why he had to leave England. She pushed away every thought of him and concentrated on what her Aunt was saying.

The soft voice of her aunt drew her back to the present. 'I meant when your mother was your age. You really should be more relaxed, Frances dear!' She said, plucking absently at her reticule. 'Think of your mother. She was always laughing and even when there was nothing to laugh about she was smiling as if she was privy to some amusing secret.' She saw the girl watching her in the mirror, reserved and silent. This was going to be hard work. The poor girl seemed to be suspicious and tense. Resolved to make Frances smile she went on, 'Oh, I remember the Netherfield Ball when our cousin, Mr. Collins wanted to dance with her, with all of us. She made sure he could not get close to her and ask her for a dance. She was laughing all the time!'

Frances shook her head. 'It was a subject that was never touched upon, at least not in my presence.'

'I can tell you about the time we still were all living at home, at Longbourn. When we attended balls and card parties and tried to evade your grandmother when she had set it in her head to lecture us on the necessity of getting a husband. Life was such fun!'

It sounded a little wistful. Jane's reminiscences of her youth at Longbourn were tinged with melancholy. Looking back she always felt it had been a time when everything was wonderful and there was no bitterness in family gatherings, no delicate situations to be dealt with. She looked at the girl, _poor child; she was fifteen years old but was experienced beyond her age._

'Would you like to hear about it?'

Frances stared at herself in the mirror. An elegant girl, dressed in a simple white dress, her hair pinned up high, and curls cascading over her shoulders looked back at her. Absentmindedly she picked up a soft string of hair and pressed it to her nose and then let it glide through her fingers. She thought of her mother. _Was this how she had stood in front of the mirror before going down to the dance? No doubt she had been full of happy anticipation about the guests, maybe about one guest in particular. She knew Mother had been her age when she met Father. Not that she had ever talked about it, by the time she was old enough Mother had seemed to have forgotten all._

She tried to imagine her mother as a careless fifteen year old girl, but all she saw was the wasted, worn out mother that had succumbed to the cholera morbus and had died within four and twenty hours after showing the first symptoms. Images flitted through her mind, briefly but clear, of the diminished woman on her deathbed, blue and shrivelled. She willed them away and thought about the question. All of a sudden a longing washed over her, and her eyes grew moist. It was the closest to crying she had ever come. She longed to hear about her mother and every tiny titbit about her youth. But when she turned to face her aunt her eyes were sombre and she shook her head. _No, she did not want to talk of Mother. What was the use anyway, she was dead and gone and talking of her would not bring her back._

'Maybe later?' suggested Jane, not wanting to upset her niece.

Frances shrugged. 'I am not like her, not as I have known her and not how you describe her.'

Jane observed the tall girl in front of her. _No, her niece was not at all like Lydia. Maybe it was her quiet, almost shy behaviour that made her so unlike her mother. She was tall and dark but there the resemblance ended. _For her fifteen years Frances had an unusual appearance. Quite unusual, in fact, with her dark hair flowing freely over her shoulders and her azure blue eyes, the girl left quite an impression on everyone she met regardless whether she smiled or not. Unsmilingly, she was the ice queen, looking down upon her subjects with scorn and icy disdain. If she showed her rare smile, like she did now, she left the recipient with a piece of heaven and a taste for more.

'Well, if I can not talk of your mother, I will give you something to wear tonight.' She took a small box from the vanity and held it out to her niece.

'Another present,' said Frances, looking at her new dress and new shoes and shook her head. 'No, Aunt, I would rather go as I am.'

'Not a present, Frances.' With that she put the box in Frances' hands. 'No, I insist, just open it and I shall tell you where it comes from.'

Reluctantly Frances accepted the box and opened its lid. On a bed of blue velvet lay an amber cross on a gold chain. She looked at it for a long time, something stirring in her memory. Her fingers caressed the cross, exploring its form.

Finally she looked up and said, 'I have seen this before, is it yours?'

'Of course you have seen it before,' a beaming Jane said, 'it is your mother's cross. She left it with us on her last visit, and now it is yours.'

'She said it was to be mine?' The idea that Mother had thought of her, more than ten years ago, nearly undid her.

'Lydia asked me to keep it for you. She was afraid she might lose it and so she left it behind.'

Frances nodded, not being able to speak. _Mother knew the cross would not last long in a household where money was in perpetual demand and so she asked Aunt Jane to keep it safe for her._ Once more her fingers caressed the cross that had become even dearer to her now she knew it was intended to be hers. She took the cross and chain from the box and held it up to Jane.

Jane took it and fastened the chain around Frances' neck. 'Look', she said, turning her niece in front of the mirror.

It was just perfect. The amber cross on the gold chain sparkled above the modest neckline of the dress. It brought a smile to Frances eyes and she relaxed visibly.

'Thank you, Aunt' she said with a choked voice, throwing her arms around Jane. And for a brief moment they stood there, holding each other.

Then, Jane stepped away and put her arm around her niece's shoulders. 'Come,' she said, 'let us go down to the ball. Take courage, my dear Frances. There is nothing to be afraid of.'

She opened the door and when they walked to the stairs the noise of voices and music from below grew stronger. For a brief second Frances hesitated, unsure of herself. Then, when her hand was taken by Jane, she squared her shoulders and bravely descended downstairs.

_Liked it? Please Let me know, I love comments!_


	5. Chapter 5

_It's been a long time, I know, but I'm glad I managed to write a new chapter. I hope you enjoy it; please, let me know what you think of it, I love comments._

_Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting!_

**Chapter 5**

'Mrs. Bingley, have I ever complimented you on your dancing?'

Jane Bingley's eyes lit up at her husband's teasing compliment, yet she pretended not to understand him. 'No I don't think you ever have,' she laughed mischievously enjoying the feeling of his arm encircling her. She loved to be in his arms, waltzing away. She also loved to talk while dancing.

'How was Frances doing at the dance?'

Charles Bingley smiled from ear to ear. 'She is a good dancer; just like her mother was. And she was clearly enjoying it.' He was silent for a moment. 'She was taught well.'

Charles Bingley had offered to open the dance with Frances not only because she did not know anyone beyond the Hursts and Miss Tracey, but because he wanted to make it clear that Frances was his niece and as such to be respected. It was with great pleasure that he invited Frances to open the ball with him. The girl had flushed with joy and something kin to relief. Ignoring the surreptitious glances from the women and the appraising looks from the men, she had taken his hand. The conversation was kept to a minimum during the country dance, but Charles had been unexpectedly surprised by Frances' modesty and manners. Deep inside he felt relief at seeing a girl that would be no embarrassment to them. Of course he would never talk about his apprehension and now it had proved ungrounded he would forget about having ever felt that way.

He scanned the ball room, no easy feat considering that at least half the county had turned up. It was to be a small party, but it appeared more invitations had gone out than Jane and he had been made aware of.

'Jane, do you know that officer?' He turned with Jane in the direction of the mentioned person. He could hardly point him out. 'No, the stiff proud fellow over there', he guided his wife in the right direction. 'He does remind me of someone', he added as an afterthought.

Upon seeing the tall, dark looking lieutenant, Jane could hardly contain her laughter. 'Of course you know him. It's William Fitzwilliam, Darcy's nephew, the Colonel's son. You must know him, Charles. William used to spend every summer and Christmas at Pemberley until he joined the army.'

'He has changed then, hasn't he? Another turn and the Bingleys were close enough to discern the pre- occupied expression on the officer's face. Clearly his thoughts were unpleasant enough to justify the scowl on his face.

'Didn't Darcy tell us he went to India only last year? I wonder what brought him back so precipitously. Let's ask him after the dance, Jane. I hope it is nothing serious.'

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Frances had just resolved to find a quiet spot to sit and watch when a voice intruded her thoughts. 'You look remarkably well, Miss Wickham!' The senior officer approaching Frances bowed.

Stiffening at first at the jovial greeting, a becoming flush spread over her cheeks when she saw by whom she was addressed.

'Colonel James! So you are back!'

Tall, dark and still handsome even though she knew him to be nearing 50, the Colonel cut an impressive figure in his regimentals.

'Yes, as you see, right from India.' He took her arm and guided her to the side doors to stay clear from the crowd that had begun to spill from the dance floor. There was a seat just beyond the doors, against the wall on the right of the hall, yet in full view of the ball room. Two enormous Sword Ferns were placed on high pedestals on either side of the bench, providing a little shelter. A low table stood to the side. It was there that the Colonel took Frances.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Frances looked straight into the ballroom and observed people standing in small groups together. Drinks were served and the musicians weren't forgotten. Some of the guests had disappeared through the double doors onto the terrace at the far side of the room; others were stretching their legs in the hall, casting curious glances at the odd couple on the bench.

Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was not partaking in the general atmosphere of ease and companionship. He was watching the merriment and the usual goings on in the room with a grim face. He felt out of place since dancing had clearly not been his object for coming here. When he saw his Colonel addressing Miss Wickham he was not very surprised. _Of course one would expect her to know military men, but he had not expected her to know his Colonel. _He turned to get some refreshment. _He had to wait then till there was a better opportunity to speak to her. He cursed himself for thinking of serious conversation with a person one was hardly acquainted with. Miss Wickham clearly did not remember him so what was the point bringing that up?_

His retreat did not go unnoticed and Colonel James was glad to point him out to Frances. 'That is one of my trusted officers, Miss Wickham. Are you acquainted with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam?'

She gave him a blank stare. She recognized the man as the officer that had helped her from the carriage; she could not recall having met him before. It was his voice when he had helped her out of the carriage that had triggered a memory in the back of her mind, but it was a vague, fleeting thing and even if they had met before it puzzled her greatly as to know where that could have been. The voice was familiar, she was certain of that, but the man was a stranger.

Without letting on her thoughts she remarked casually, 'I do not believe so, Colonel.'

'Then I shall have to introduce you two. He is an excellent fellow. Under my command since he came to India; a good soldier if ever I saw one and a promising officer.'

Frances wondered briefly why he mentioned this man to her. Refusing to be drawn into mere conversation she spoke the words that had been on her mind since she had seen the Colonel was here.

'Was your journey to your satisfaction, Colonel?' Glad to have asked it she sat with down cast eyes, fiddling with her ball card.

Colonal James nodded. But seeing she would not look at him he added gently, 'Yes, all went well.'

Her eyes flew to his face, searching his eyes to find out if he spoke the truth. Heaving a small sigh of relief she stared at him for a moment, not knowing how to react.

_Her father__ had reached his destination then. She was glad he was in India and she hoped he would keep himself out of trouble there. Would he ever return to England? She briefly wondered if Uncle Darcy was behind this but she quickly dismissed the thought. Uncle Darcy might be rich; she doubted whether his influence reached as far as the Foreign Office. Better let it go now and concentrate on the future._

Frances was spared to carry the conversation when the Colonel got up in obvious astonishment at seeing the small woman approach them.

'I never expected to find you here, Mrs. …' his voice trailed off, clearly at a loss how he should address her.

Miss Tracey flushed. '…Challoner.' The hint of a smile that started in the corners of her dark eyes spread to her mouth and she presented an enchanting picture to the man who stood before her.

'Miss Challoner, would you do this old friend the honor of the next dance?'

Without hesitation Miss Tracey placed her hand on the proffered arm and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor. Only then she seemed to remember her young friend and looked back with an apologetic smile.

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Years later Frances knew exactly when things had started turning out badly. The first mistake she made that evening was to step out on the terrace, alone. From the moment she was outside she heard whispering, giggling and an eerie quiet in between that was as much disturbing as it provided relief after the noise of the ballroom. Ignoring her first instinct to turn back, she walked to the edge of the terrace in a show of carelessness.

Someone, down in the garden, exclaimed her name. A woman's voice, shrill and high in indignation tried to argue a case. Silently Frances approached the banister and put her hand on it and gazed into the moonlit night for a moment. When she could not find the speaker she made for the stairs and swiftly found her way down. That was the second mistake because now she was close to the shrubbery, that place infamous for clandestine meetings and if she were to be discovered how would she explain her solitary presence there? But no one had told Frances of the dangers of gardens in moonlit nights or she would never have left the house in the first place.

There was no further sound but Frances, convinced that the speaker was close at hand walked into the shrubbery and shrank back into the shelter of the leaves; holding her breath when footsteps indicated an approaching pair coming close to her hiding place. When Frances peered around the bush her attention was immediately drawn to the woman's jewels and white dress, casting their reflection in the moonlight. It was an oddly matched couple; he was tall, taller than anyone of her acquaintance, she stood about half his size. When the woman lifted her face up to her companion, Frances had a fleeting glimpse of her face and hair. She was sure she had never seen her before and committed the image to her memory, storing it until the time she could use it.

Frances withdrew into the shadows again; apparently the couple had not finished their argument. 'Wait, it is all Wickham's fault…,' the woman began urgently. She sounded young and naïve.

'What are these Wickhams to us, then?' interrupted the man impatiently. 'I have waited long enough. I do not care for this reckless fellow. Neither should you. Tomorrow I will speak to your uncle.'

'No, no, you do not understand,' wailed the woman. 'You cannot approach my uncle; he will never give his consent before it is all settled.'

'Before _what_ is settled, my dear?' Softly spoken, suavely and yet there was an unmistakable undertone of menace. A long silence fell.

Frances wished she could see the owner of the voice but his back did not reveal much. _Was this about her father or one of her brothers? _

'You do not understand,' the woman insisted.

'My dear, I wish you would give me a little more credit,' said the man. 'Don't break your pretty head over it and leave it all to me.'

The woman hesitated, and then appeared to accept the inevitable. 'Then do as you see fit. I had better go in now.'

The scent of a cigar wafted towards Frances and she stood there a long time, waiting for the man to go. By the time he moved away from the shrubbery Frances was freezing.

With clattering teeth from the cold she entered through the French windows. A swift glance convinced her no one saw her come in; darted to the stairs in a rather unladylike fashion only to have reached it when she was checked by the sound of one approaching.

With a heavy feeling of dread she paused, bracing herself for what she certainly knew would come. From the moment she had looked into the grave eyes of the lieutenant that helped her out of the carriage earlier that day she had expected something of this kind to happen. No one would seek her out for the sake of her company; she had no friends and did not make any. She had felt his scrutinizing look all night; he had come with a purpose and nothing could stop him.

'Looking for this, Miss Wickham?'

Turning around she saw the tall and dark lieutenant cross the hall from the front doors to the stairs, her much desired shawl dangling from his outstretched hand. He cut an imposing figure in his uniform and she would have considered him handsome had not the somber frown marred the perfect features of his face. And all of a sudden a feeling of irritation rose up in her and she wondered what right he had to follow her and watch her with these dark brooding eyes.

Unable to hide that irritation she said crossly, 'Have we met before, Sir?'

A hint of a smile appeared in his eyes when he held out the shawl to her. 'Yours, I believe?'

_Can you see where this story is heading? Please leave a comment, I love them!_


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